


Noise

by TheRealSEHinton



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, but it's mostly for mar and ollie!, ily mar ily ollie!, not really relationships but like, there's some unrequited love here, this is for all the people who requested purly!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSEHinton/pseuds/TheRealSEHinton
Summary: “What are we doing here, Curly?” I ask.“Do you know that you say my name at the end of every sentence?” He asks smugly.I feel my lips tug downwards and I cross my arms. “Well, I might forget it one day.”When I look back at him his eyes are glued on me, wide and knowing like they’re trying to study me or something. I hate it, and I hate looking into them. They’re big and dark like bitter chocolate.I’ve seen those eyes before.“You could never forget me, Curtis,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
Relationships: Ponyboy Curtis/Curly Shepard
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Noise

It’s a lot louder than what I’m used to. I don’t really go to parties, no one’s ever invited me to one, I think. 

The boys would go out sometimes. They hardly ever allowed me to join them. The few times I did trail behind their tails and into a crowded bar or noisy shack of a house, I realized the whole party scene wasn’t one I was drawn to.

Going into high school I didn’t expect to be as popular as Soda and Darry--well, as popular as you can be when you’re from our side of the tracks. And I didn’t expect to be as busy as they were. I didn’t think I’d have somewhere to go every friday and saturday night and I didn’t think of sneaking into the house hours later, stumbling over drunk feet but trying to be as quiet as possible.

For the most part, everything’s gone just like how I imagined it. I’m an athlete, sure, I run track and all, but I’m not too close to the team. And I have friends, a few at least, but we’re all concerned for our school work in a way none of the gang ever was. I don’t hang around the partying crowd, and sure I’m all older but the guys haven’t been in that kind of mood since the incident.

And despite all that, here I am, at a random person’s house, leaning against the wall and watching everyone dancing a little too closely to a song that’s giving me a damn headache.

I’m just wondering how I got myself into a situation like this.

“Ponyman!” I hear a familiar voice boom over the music.

Curly stands next to me and nudges my arm with his elbow. I decide to ignore him by taking a long sip from the beer in my hands, not even sparing him a glance. It’s disgusting, I do my best not to gag at the taste. No wonder Soda wasn’t much of a drinker.

“Why are you sitting here all by yourself, Curtis?” He yells in my ear.

“Dammit, Curly,” I say, flinching and holding my hand on the side of my head. “You’re gonna bust my ear drums.”

He leans in even closer to me, I back away a little further. “How else are we supposed to talk?”

“Let’s not talk, then!” I say to him, a bitter edge to my voice. His lips curve into a smile, as they do when I snap at him--he thinks it’s all funny. Everything’s a joke to Curly. I notice that our faces are too close, and the whole house is too hot, I turn away. “The music is too damn loud!”

He rolls his shoulders and tosses me a smug look. “Let’s go then.”

“Really?” I ask brightly. “We can go?”

A hearty life escapes his throat and he playfully punches my shoulder. “Just for a second, Curtis, outside. So we can talk.”

I roll my eyes and shift my attention away from him, taking disappointed and measured sips from my beer. When I swallow it all down, I say in a sour voice, “No thanks, Curly. I’m not too interested in talking with you.”

He chuckles again, a noise I’ve come to hate if I’m going to be completely honest, and grabs my arm, trying to pull my stubborn feet away from the wall. “Come on, Curtis, don’t be such a square.”

I frown and allow him to lead me away, I immediately feel a dozen bodies press against me. “I’m not a square, Curly.”

He laughs, and turns back for a moment to flash me a grin.

We move past the throng of people and up to a staircase, I was hoping we would go right out the front door and then inevitably leave, but, like always, Curly has other plans. He leads me upstairs and away from the noise and the heat of the crowd, into a dark, uninhabited room.

“What are we doing here, Curly?” I ask as he flips on the light switch. The sudden brightness floods my eyes and I wince.

“Do you know that you say my name at the end of every sentence?” He asks smugly.

I feel my lips tug downwards and I cross my arms. “Well, I might forget it one day.”

When I look back at him his eyes are glued on me, wide and knowing like they’re trying to study me or something. I hate it, and I hate looking into them. They’re big and dark like bitter chocolate.

I’ve seen those eyes before.

“You could never forget me, Curtis,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

There’s a familiar heat in my face and I ignore it, instead choosing to repeat my question. “So, why are we up here?”

He shrugs and walks away, towards some glass double doors at the other end of the room. He opens them and a rush of cold, evening air invades the space around us. It makes me feel like I can breathe again.

“Thought we needed some fresh air,” he says while heading outside. 

I follow him onto the little balcony, taking in the coolness of the night. I’m thankful for the small break away from the party and the noise and the people, I feel a certain safety.

All of the sudden, annoyance pools inside of my gut and I turn to Curly with a glare. Before he can look back at me I punch him in the arm.

He recoils and laughs. “What was that for?”

“For inviting me to this stupid party,” I spit. I huff and move my gaze to the quiet scene below us. I see a small neighborhood of houses, a little spread out, not too close. Some of their windows are dimly lit, some are dark. The world is trapped in this peaceful moment where it’s not awake but it’s not asleep yet.

Curly shakes his head, his spirals move around, they’re so dark and black that they reflect the moonlight. “You came, anyways.”

I scoff and set my chin in my hand, leaning over the railing of the balcony. “I had nothing better to do.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s not my fault.” His dark hand nudges my shoulder and I notice the cigarette he holds. “Want a smoke?”

I take it and shoot him a look. “Of course I do, my nerves are spiking.”

“You just need to relax,” he says as he lights both of our squares. The fire of his lighter laps at my cigarette and I can feel the heat, not just from the tiny flame, but from his fingers. It’s like they’re a little too close to my lips. But I don’t pull away.

“I’m trying,” I say when I lean back, words mumbled with the butt in my mouth.

“How about we relax in a different way?”

There’s a mischievous lilt in his voice. I look at him in confusion, I see the elfish grin on his face, I notice the dimples in his cheeks. “What’re you talking about, Curly?”

He reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out a flask, shaking it lightly so I can hear the splashing of whatever’s inside.

“Goddammit, Curly,” I huff. “What is that? Where did you get that?”

“Tequila,” he answers in a sing-songy voice. “Stole it off of Tim.”

I roll my eyes. “You know he’ll beat your ass when he finds out, right?”

“You keep rolling your eyes,” he laughs. “Don’t you know if you keep it up your face’ll freeze like that?”

“That’s not true,” I scoff. “And besides, I can’t help it. You’re exasperating.”

He grins wildly. “I have no idea what that word means, Curtis, and you know it. Now,” he gives the flask another jiggle, “want some?”

“Of course I don’t,” I say sharply.

He puts the flask to his lips and almost whispers before he takes a drink, “Square.”

My ears burn when I hear that word. I snatch the flask away from him and say, “Shut your trap, Curly. I’m not a square, would you stop with that? You always talk so much.”

“I have to find a way to keep up with you,” he quips.

I scoff. “I guess I’ve met my match.”

“Your match?” He says in a low voice, leaning closer. I immediately step away from him.

“Christ, Curly, do you know anything about personal space?”

His hands raise in the air in defense. “You’re so uptight sometimes, Curtis.”

“I am not uptight!” I snap, raising the tequila to my mouth and taking a large gulp.

Fuck.

I immediately spit the alcohol out and start coughing up a storm, Curly is howling like a dog beside me. He’s holding his stomach and doubling over and crying, wiping at his tears. When my throat stops burning I stand up and shove the flask away from me into his shoulder, he catches it before it falls.

“Screw you, Curly!” I say. “You’re always embarrassing me-”

“I’m not!”

“How can you drink that?” I ask. “It’s like drinking fire. God, I can still taste it, my throat hurts.”

“I’m not embarrassing you,” he says defensively, “you just do that to yourself. For someone so smart, you really don’t use your head sometimes.”

I’m about to get pissed at him for saying those same damn words I’ve heard all my life long until I feel his hand on my head, ruffling my hair. A warmth rushes to my cheeks and my neck and my ears and I pull away quickly, flinching like I’ve just been hit.

When I put that distance between us, his eyes widen again. And then I’m seeing everything and then I’m feeling it, like a rush of emotions, a tidal wave of thoughts, of memories.

His eyes, those dark brown eyes.

Curly doesn’t act like him, not at all. Curly’s bolder, Curly’s louder, Curly is more than just impulsive when he acts, because he doesn’t act quietly, he screams so that the whole world can hear. He wants everyone to know who he is, to see that he’s on fire and that ready for whatever you throw at him. He’s an open book, he doesn’t see the point in keeping secrets, in hiding, in best friends, in pinky promises, he’s just himself and if you know then you know and that’s all.

That’s nothing like him.

Curly hardly looks like him either. Curly’s hands are darker, his skin is like the color of wood, deep and rich and smooth. And his hair is, well, curlier. 

But his eyes. They have the same eyes.

And they give you the same look, that puppy look, that desperateness, that ache. It’s hard to look into his eyes and not see him, it’s hard not to think of him.

I think of him a lot, a lot more than I should. There’s no point in remembering what’s lost and my mind stays on what the rest of the gang acts like they’ve forgotten. It hurts and I just wish I wasn’t giving myself that pain.

It was hard enough when Johnny was alive. It was hard enough having to see him and be near him, share cigarettes with him, listen to his calm breath, study the bruises and scars on his face. It was hard enough watching him run off with people I could never be, watching him fall in love with a guy I couldn’t ever become--someone tough and hard and brave, someone who was everything I wasn’t.

It was hard enough knowing that I loved him, that he would never love me back, and that I could never tell him. And now he’s dead. And I have to live with the fact that there was something I never told my best friend, something I’ve never gotten closure for, and something I remember every time I look in Curly’s eyes.

Falling in love when you’re someone like me is tough already, but now there’s the added guilt of wondering if I actually love him at all or if I’m just trying to replace what I lost.

It’s scary to think of all the ways I can hurt Curly. I can scare him away, I can make him lose a friend by telling him what I really feel. I can break his heart too, I can stay pretending that he’s something he’s not in an attempt to fill that void inside of me. I can ruin his life. All the comments he’s made, the way he’s touched me and held my hand, ruffled my hair, I can tell someone if I want to and just ruin his life. 

Curly acts tough, like he has to, like anyone around these parts has to, but he’s more sensitive than I am. The thought of hurting him…that thought makes my stomach sink.

It’s better this way, probably. It’s better to just joke with him, push him away, act like I couldn’t care less. It’s safer for him.

He’s looking at me, still staring, still watching with those wide eyes. I want to look away, I should, but I can’t. He turns away after a while, his smile is losing its light. “I’m sorry for inviting you to the party.”

I should say something. I should tell him it’s alright.

“You’ve just been so sad, you know,” he sighs. “Ever since, uh, that incident. I keep trying to find ways to make you happy, Pony.”

My hands are gripping the railing, my palms are sweaty. “It’s not your job to make me happy, Curly.”

He looks at me with that sad face, Christ, that kicked-dog face, I feel bursting. “But I want to.”

“I don’t want you to.” It comes out harsher than I wanted it to.

Shit. I can’t look at him. If I see his expression, his eyes, I wouldn’t be able to take it.

“Do you hate me, Pony?”

There’s a part of me that’s screaming, begging for me to stay silent. That question, I know how dangerous it is. If I bother answering it, I’ll say more than I should.

“Of course, I don’t,” I say softly.

I can feel his gaze on me. I can’t look, I can’t. 

“Then why do you-”

“You idiot,” I snap, turning to him. “Don’t you get it? I act like this because I can’t let you know that I-”

I catch myself before I say anything else.

“You what?” He asks breathlessly.

My hands ball into fists, I feel myself shaking. “I should go.”

Curly grabs my arm as I try to walk away. “Ponyboy, you can’t let me know that you what?”

“Don’t say my full name!” I yell, struggling to get his grip off of me.

“Ponyboy Michael Curtis,” he says firmly, “you what? Tell me.”

“You’re such a dumbass, you know that?” I ask. “I can’t tell you, what don’t you get?”

“Why?” He presses.

I feel tears pricking at my eyes. Dear God. “Because it’s wrong.”

“And why is it wrong?”

“Curly, I swear to God-”

“I love you, Ponyboy,” he says suddenly. I nearly have a heart attack when he does that. “I love you, do you think that’s wrong.”

I feel something so strong and painful, like anger or sadness, overflow in my gut. It makes my throat tight, it makes my eyes hot, it sets my body on fire. I feel like screaming. I finally manage to get his hand off of my arm and then I shove him away, he lands against the railing.

“How can you just say that?” I yell. “Are you stupid or something? How can you just tell me that?”

He looks confused. “Because it’s true. Because that’s how I feel.”

I run my hands through my hair, I feel my voice crack. “But you can’t just say that! That’s dangerous, Curly, what do you not understand? If I were anyone else-”

“You’re not just anyone else, Pony,” he says. “So tell me what you feel.”

I feel like there’s a dam inside of me and it’s not strong enough. It’s trying it’s best to hold everything back, keep it all hidden away, but the foundations are cracking. Whenever I’m with Curly, every second spent around him is hazardous, it’s all too risky. Because he’s the only person who has the power to break me. With one question, one touch, one glance, I could just combust--in a way I haven’t in months and months and months.

I shouldn’t have come here, I shouldn’t be around him. I keep trying to resist him but he keeps on pulling me back. I wish I could hate him like he thinks I do, I wish I could.

“Ponyboy?”

Christ, it’s happening. I’m crying. 

When he walks over to me I want to push him away, I think I try to, but in the end I’m still trapped in his embrace. And the way he’s holding me, it’s so warm, so gentle, so familiar that it makes me cry even harder.

I’m remembering again. I’m remembering the way Johnny took me in his arms and brushed his fingers through my hair at the funeral, how he held me whenever I was sad. I’m remembering those moments in the church when the nights were so cold and dark that he pressed me close and wrapped himself around me like a blanket.

What if I’m pretending this is him? What if, right now, in this moment, in this hug, I’m imagining him. I’m imagining him looking at me with those eyes, telling me those words. “I love you, Ponyboy. I love you.”

What if I don’t really want it to be Curly?

“Ponyboy,” Curly whispers, “are you okay?”

I almost want to laugh. I sniffle and press my face further into his chest. “Of course I’m not okay, dumbass.”

“Oh. I-uh-I’m sorry-”

I push away from him, trying to be gentle this time. “Stop apologizing, Curly, it’s not your fault. It isn’t, it…” My voice trails off and I start thinking again. I’m always thinking, maybe that’s my problem. “It’s mine. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.”

He takes my hand in his and pulls me closer. “Don’t say anything, Pony. I just want you to know that I love you, and that’s it. You don’t have to love me back.”

“But what if I hurt you?” I ask softly.

“Then hurt me,” he insists. “You could hurt me a million times, I wouldn’t care. That don’t change a thing.”

“But what about-”

What about Johnny? What about the way I may never be able to stop seeing him when I look at you, to stop feeling him when I touch you. What about that?

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

I want to believe him, maybe I should. My brain hasn’t seen a fantasy in forever and I want to imagine again. I want to lie to myself and laugh about it again. I want to be the way I used to.

If Johnny knew about it all, and maybe he did, Johnny knew a lot more than anyone gave him credit for, he would want me to move on. I know he would. He would want me to be happy and find someone else, someone who loves me back and won’t stop.

I think I love Curly, and if I really don’t then maybe one day I can. That can be enough. That can keep me afloat.

But I can’t say it back, not right now. So instead I bring him close and press our lips together, tangle my hands in his hair and try to imagine. It doesn’t feel as bad as I thought it would, I don’t feel guilty or ashamed or wrong. I feel better, I feel happy.

I know what he can give me, I’m accepting it. And I’m praying that I can give it all back to him someday.


End file.
